


I Mess Around with Him

by EloquentEnigma



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Drug Use, Exploration, Gay Bar, M/M, Medicine, Sexual Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-06 22:22:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14066850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EloquentEnigma/pseuds/EloquentEnigma
Summary: Harry certainly hadn’t predicted his night would unfold anything like this; that is, blonde wig on head: pulled over him rather aggressively by Nick in their effort to escape the O2 discreetly.After having been pushed into the car, again, by Nick— the sensible host of the Brits— the two were now skidding through the streets of Peninsula Square in a rather turbulent taxi in the errr.. general direction of Soho.Between adjusting the Hanson wig and taking a cheeky swig at the bubbly Nick had…well, 'nicked' from the award show, he must have said something rather illuminating because they were now pulling up outside a place called ‘G-A-Y.’Or in other words, Nick takes Harry to a gay bar and Harry realises he kind of likes it... messes around a bit. But amidst the gaiety and bonding, Harry comes to find his feelings for Nick might go deeper than meets the eye.





	1. Chapter 1

  

When Harry was awoken by Lou Teasdale that morning to begin the process of being fussed over for the Brits, he pondered over all the after-party invitations that had sent his phone buzzing throughout the past week—mulling over which sounded the most alluring, which household or venue promised the most champagne and the most Fleetwood Mac. He even texted Niall to see what he’d had in mind for the evening, but Niall had already made plans with what seemed like the entire Republic of Ireland soccer team and some old schoolmates.

He certainly hadn’t predicted his night would unfold anything like this; that is, blonde wig on head: pulled over him rather aggressively by Nick in their effort to escape the O2 discreetly. And, after having been pushed into the car, again, by Nick— the sensible host of the Brits— the two were now skidding through the streets of Peninsula Square in a rather turbulent taxi in the errr.. general direction of Soho.

Between adjusting the Hanson wig and taking a cheeky swig at the bubbly Nick had…well, 'nicked' from the award show, he must have said something rather illuminating because they were now pulling up outside a place called ‘G-A-Y.’ Wiping the laughter and champagne from his face, Nick helped Harry out the car and threw a tenner at the disgruntled driver, who sped away abruptly.

“What are we doing, Nick?” Harry asked as they walked rather hurriedly toward the throbbing music— though he wasn’t sure if the words came out properly or if they all sort of hurled out at once.

“S’alright Harry”, Nick replied, rubbing his shoulder gently. “You don’t have to worry about anything ere’, not tonight. It’s all just some fun, yeah?”

“Yeah”, he nodded, unsure exactly what Nick was alluding to, but unable to get rid of the smile the alcohol had plastered on his dimpling face.

“Come on, let’s do it then!” Nick declared as he pushed down Harry’s sunnies and they passed a line of chattering people. Nick nodded at the security guard positioned outside the entrance and ushered Harry inside the red rope, faces of recognition began to grow on some people in line.

“Did she look familiar, or is it just me?” Said one guy, squinting his glitter eyelids at the passing blonde bombshell in the dark shades.

Once inside, Harry yanked off his wig; shaking out his wayward curls, and tossing the blonde mop toward the crowd of bodies. Although he feared being recognised, he was glad to be rid of that itchy disaster.

Inside the bar was a whole other world Harry could have never imagined. Nick had often rambled on about his debauchery on nights out at gay bars— one morning he had even left the aftermath of one of those evenings steaming in his shower when Harry brought over croissants. But it was different to experience it first hand; to be flesh to flesh with gyrating bodies and pole dancing limbs and people in all degrees of nakedness and rainbow clad revelry.

Drag queens danced in towering heels, boys were kissing boys, girls were kissing girls, everyone was singing along to an old Lady Gaga song. Glitter littered the entire venue, strewn in hair, smeared over faces, scattered at their feet.

But all of a sudden people were looking at him— boys were looking at him, and he didn't know what to do. He turned to his sides, searching for Nick, but his ridiculous friend was nowhere to be seen; already gone; deep within the crowd of swinging hips and outstretched hands.

He stood in the entrance there for a moment, feeling more exposed than he'd ever felt at a concert of thousands of screaming fans.

Slowly he made his way forward, allowing his personal space to be closed in by the pulse of the crowd; step by step until he was one with the swell of dancing, kissing humans.

The buzz of the taxi bubbly was loosening up his legs again and turning his cheeks the rose of his blouse; before he could feel self-conscious he found himself swaying to the beat of the sugary pop song.

Someone else was rubbing up against him— someone warm and firm; their crotch brushing him, their breath against his ear, and soon, he felt his lips closing in on the stranger's own. At first, it was a shock, to feel such a rough face against his; but he eased into the movement. It was just a kiss after all, wasn't it? He couldn't turn down a kind stranger. The stranger's mouth tasted like the lime wedge of a tequila shot, and Harry felt dizzy for a moment, remembering the alcohol that was lurching in his blood system, but he gripped onto the boy more tightly to steady his balance.

'Work Bitch' by Britney was playing; the singer's faux British accent filled the bar, a warm prod in his ear, and a smile crept out of him mid-kiss. The boy felt this happening and pulled away a bit. "What's funny?" He whispered.

"Oh, it's nothing, it's just... I just like this song... a lot." It was true, but not the whole truth. He was laughing because he remembered Nick's last party... how he'd done a body shot off Nick's chest while Aimee, Alexa, and Daisy cheered and whistled. He thought of how 'Work Bitch' was playing that night and how Nick had sung it the next morning upon issuing everyone a mop or a hoover— everyone had protested and groaned.

"You're a strange person, you know that?" The guy responded as Harry was spaced out, giggling to himself.

Harry estranged his hands from where they clung around the stranger's neck.

"So, you're saying you don't want to kiss me anymore?" Harry quipped, brushing a hand through his hair, endearingly.

The guy shook his head and pulled Harry in again.

Although it felt nice to feel warm lips against his, Harry couldn't help but wonder where Nick was. Was Nick kissing a stranger too? Probably.

Harry thought this would be a lot more fun if Nick was here, coaching him on, cackling his little hyena laugh.

Harry broke away from the kind stranger. "Thank you for your company. It's been great, truly", he mumbled, patting the guy gently on the back and retreating into the mass of bodies before them.

The guy's eyes were wide in astonishment as he brushed his fingers over his mouth, perplexed. "What the fuck just happened?"

Harry was already tripping over feet, brushing through couples, searching for Nick.

 


	2. Think I’m gonna stick with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry found Nick at the end of the bar, rather... tied up. He promptly caught himself wishing he'd never searched for his friend in the first place. (Harry doesn't know why he feels sick the moment he sees Nick with another man. He tries to make sense of these feelings and what happened between them at the Brits earlier, all while a crowd is realising who he is.)

                                                        

Harry found Nick at the end of the bar, rather... tied up. He promptly caught himself wishing he'd never searched for his friend in the first place. Nick stood gangly in his Topman button up. Unbeknownst to the bored looking DJ behind him, his hands slid deep into the abyss of someone's designer jeans, to the rhythm of an Ariana Grande song. His tongue seemed to be plunged halfway down the throat of his chiseled, v-neck wearing companion.

Harry couldn't help it, he rolled his eyes when the other guy pushed Nick's quiff back seductively. He wondered if this guy knew how long Nick had spent in the mirror that morning, fiddling about with his hair. Harry sure did, because it was definitely longer than Lou had spent on his. Nick had called to update him on every step of the process, and Harry had listened, boiling the kettle, as Nick complained relentlessly and spilled coffee on his trousers—resulting in the plethora of swear words that were hurled unapologetically over the line. Harry poured hot water into his mug for a cuppa, mumbling some vague advice in response: "mmm-ing" and "ahhh-ing" as the gossipy radio host filled him in on his day: celebrity encounters, embarrassing interactions at Sainsbury, errands.

Harry wasn't sure why he wanted to erase the image from his mind now—Nick rubbing against those rock hard abs. It was as if he wasn't constantly witnessing Nick fooling about with whatever underwear model he'd brought home on any given night; wasn't he so used to this routine? Some freshly tanned diesel catalogue-dummy, wrapped vicariously in a towel, hovering in Nick's kitchen, wasting the good coffee. This was simply a fact of Nick's life, as natural and as constant as the sun rising and setting; an intrinsic experience of any of Nick's mates, in fact.

So why did he suddenly feel all those flutes of champagne re-emerging, making their way up his stomach... bubbling in his throat? What was this acidic taste against his tongue?  _Oh right, that was the vomit surfacing._

Nick broke off the kiss and turned to face Harry just as he was rushing to the bathroom. Harry stumbled through the door, barging past a line of impatient clientele, who scrolled through their phones impetuously and checked each others' makeup in the mirror.

"Hey, Mariah Carey, there's a line, you know!" Called one drag queen as Harry skidded toward the cubicle—nearby patrons leaned forward and attempted to locate the source of the ruckus.

"So sorry," he sighed, tossing a fifty dollar note at the disgruntled queen and smiling apologetically. He forced open the door and locked the latch immediately; the moment it clicked and he was safely inside, his knees collapsed to the cold floor. He gripped onto the toilet seat and unleashed a surge of diluted alcohol and canapes.

"Hold on...was that Harry Styles?" he heard from outside—followed by an outbreak of excited babbling, arguing and phone buzzing.

Another noise approached from behind the crowd of people: a familiar, chirpy, Manchester kind of voice that had risen over the rest and silenced the stir of commotion. "Excuse me!... Coming through... I'm the agent actually...Yeah, that's right. Put your phones down. No photos tonight lads."

It was Nick.

He heard a knock on the door.

"Harry, are you all right, love?" Nick asked pleadingly. Harry, with heavy, fluttering eyelids, heaved into the toilet bowl in response. "Will you let me in, 'Arry? Nick implored, softly. Harry lifted his head up from the loo breathlessly, sniffled, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "I don't want to see you, Nick... I... I don't know know if I can look at you", He sniffed, gasping slightly for air. Nicks brows rose in concern and his eyes darted in the direction of the bar outside—Nicki Minaj's distinct flow could be heard, braggadocious and commanding, with each swing of the door; the line was becoming more and more congested with traffic—and his gaze drifted back to the perimeters of Harry's cubicle, where the poorly and sulky pop star was groaning and coughing. _Somehow, he'd truly buggered up this night._

"What's wrong? Aren't you having any fun? Silence and some spitting from the other end of the door followed his inquiry. Nick sighed, squatting down to Harry's level on the floor outside the door. "Look, we can get out of 'ere... whatever you want. Just don't get all divaish with me, alright?" Nick averted his attention again to the line, where everyone was gaping in silence and intrigue—waiting to see what would happen to the drunken celebrity in the cubicle.

"Mind ya business lads and lasses, c'mon. Give this young gentleman some privacy, alright? The audience continued to stare, utterly perplexed. "Go on, you heard me, shoo!" He demanded, waving his hand in emphasis. They reluctantly retreated from the bathroom, groaning and whispering in a heated frenzy.

"Paparazzi are gone, will you open up for me now, Mr. Styles?" Nick sang out playfully, hands against the door. Another moment of silence prevailed before Harry unlatched the door and returned to his spot on the tiles. Nick cautiously creaked open the door and lowered himself to Harry's side on the bathroom floor—his legs skimmed against Harry's thigh as he stretched his boots out on the tiles. Harry's elbows rested on the toilet seat, his head bending limply over the murky liquid below. Nick lifted his friend up and leaned him gently against the graffitied wall that was covered with stickers and flyers and inky messages.

Harry focused on breathing and not passing out from dizziness, his eyes were red and teary. "Bloody hell, 'Arry. I've never seen you this pissed before!" Nick reached for Harry's unkempt curls, softly brushing them away from his eyes. Harry turned away from his touch. Nick, sighing, readjusted his legs by pulling them up to his knees, tucking them under his folded arms. "Why do'ya hate me all of a sudden, then?" The radio host tossed his hair back into its signature quiff.

"I don't know... it's complicated" Harry murmured, refusing to look his friend in the eye.

"Have you seen my life?" Nick chuckled. "I'm sure I can handle it. Besides... you're always listening to me ramble on. Now it's your turn." Nick nudged Harry on the shoulder, a weak smile formed on his lips. Harry inhaled, studying the floor, scratching his arm nervously.

"What was that in the bathroom... at the Brits?" He croaked. "I mean, what did that mean?"

_The Brits?_

* * *

 

Nick searched his mind back to the event of a few hours prior: in the bathroom of the O2, moments before he was due to present the awards. "You already know you've won it", Nick teased Harry, as he lined up some coke with his credit card.

"You don't know that!" Harry drawled, giggling into his sleeve. "There are loads of worthy nominees."

"Oh shut up with that humble bollocks. I know the real Harry Styles! I've seen him." Nick knelt down to the toilet seat and snorted the line with a rolled up tenner. He stood up swiftly, wiping his nose.

"...Oh yeah? And who would that be?" Harry queried. His eyes crinkled with the hint of a smile; lashes flittered beguilingly.

"The Harry Styles that's about to do a cheeky line, because he can't resist a bit of fun", Nick quipped, arranging a fresh line. Harry looked at the little white line Nick had laid out for him; knowing he shouldn't...

"Don't we have to be out there now?" He asked quietly, motioning in the direction of the stage.

"Not for another five!" Nick reassured him, beaming energetically.

Harry, taking a deep breath in, thought this through in his head. He wanted to try it...  _don't knock it 'til you try it_ , you know? But he envisioned all the possible Sun headlines that would be plastered over the internet the next day.

"I won't tell anyone. I promise", Nick smirked. "I won't even tell Daisy!"

"You're definitely going to tell Daisy", Harry chuckled into the palm of his hand, cheeks reddening.

"Alright, I do tell her everything! But apart from that... It'll be our little secret."

Harry unbuttoned his jacket and handed it to Nick. "I don't want it to get ruffled", he explained. Nick rolled his eyes, continuing to smirk in endearment. Harry knelt down carefully, rolling up the ends of his sleeves. "We haven't got all day, 'Arry", Nick interrupted.

Harry turned to face Nick. "You're enjoying this too much", he teased. Nick shrugged; visibly amused, eyes twinkling. Harry lowered his nose to the shiny toilet seat, taking the tenner Nick had passed to him and dragging it over the white line. He lifted his chin up from the seat, running his finger under his nose and brushing his stray hair back. He stood back up and turned to Nick, who was leaning against the door of the cubicle—arms folded, seemingly impressed.

"Is that the Harry you know, then?" Harry mocked, pushing his hand against Nick's chest gently, in a playful way. But all of a sudden, Nick turned quiet... and so did Harry, and Nick stopped smiling. He looked into Harry's eyes, studying them tentatively. They both continued watching each other, Harry's hands still gripping at Nick's shirt. (Nick was still holding onto Harry's discarded jacket.) They were inching closer and closer, chequing the other's lips, and fluttering their lashes back up to each other's eyes until there was no longer space between them—Harry could taste the Dom Perignon on Nick's lips. But just as their lips met, from the distance, the sound of a mighty applause droned and echoed, interrupting them—followed by an announcement from the stage. Nick was due up there...

"Shit!" Nick groaned, tossing the coat to Harry and running out the door immediately. Harry caught his jacket with both arms outstretched—looking down at the garment with widened eyes. Pale, flushed and light-headed, he slipped the jacket back on and buttoned it up hastily. He remembered to fix his rolled-up sleeves, combed his hair back with his fingers and itched at his dripping nose. The tardy star checked (what was now) his somewhat disheveled appearance in the mirror briefly before exiting the bathroom. He headed for his seat in the audience, where the world was expecting Harry Styles—the other one, that is.

 

* * *

 

It all came rushing back to Nick as he noticed Harry lowering his eyes to the floor, avoiding eye contact with him. 

"I don't know. I mean... what did you think it meant?", Nick whispered, surprised to hear his voice faintly cracking.

Harry blinked up at the ceiling lights, fluttering away the tears forming in the corners of his eyes; hiding them. "I can't really explain it... 'cos, like, I've never felt like this before. Ya know?"

Nick breathed deeply into his chest, conscious of the way the noise pierced the overwhelming silence in the cubicle. He looked at the puffy-eyed boy affectionately, carefully, seeing him for the first time; slowly sliding his hand toward Harry's until their fingers entwined. They sat there on the cold floor without talking, simply listening to each other's steady breathing, until Harry let go—sinking his head into Nick's chest, weeping—not unlike the unrelenting London drizzle outside the G-A-Y walls. Nick combed the boy's curls back to stop them from sticking to his face.

A banging was coming from outside the door: security, and an entire mob of people screaming Harry's name.

They had no immediate escape plan and they were both due to be on air (for the Radio 1 Breakfast Show, of course) in four hours. _Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Meet Me in the Hallway

**Author's Note:**

> ... To be continued.


End file.
